


Solitaire

by silverr



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Depression, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Missing Scene, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 16:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14752430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverr/pseuds/silverr
Summary: Two wrongs don't make a right—making Logan Kinear step in front of a bus had been the Technicolor lesson forthat—but neither do horrifying revelations cancel each other out. No, they pile up and burn out your insides until you're hollow.The only remedy is to hide from the masses and self-medicate.





	Solitaire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dustygnome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustygnome/gifts).



> Takes place between 1.09, "The Writing Room" and 1.10, "Homecoming." References events of episodes 1.08 and 1.09, so yes, spoilers for Season 1.
> 
> Thank you to **Beyonder** and **Bryn** for beta.

**.**

**.**

It is a horrible start. Red king, red jack, no aces, the low cards all spades and clubs. Nothing goes on _anything,_ and the draw pile fails him, giving him only a solitary ace and a king he has no place for.

Of course, he could cheat and change the cards. There are dozens of magicked decks in the cottage already: one with smug unicorns, a few with nude soccer and rugby players holding up various numbers of fingers, at least one unusable deck where every card is a seven, and the one he and Margo had made when they were feeling extra domestic—the suits were vegetables, the face cards raw meat, and the aces spice bottles. So very _Year in Provence_. In fact, now that he thinks about it, the deck he's using might be the very last one in the cottage completely untouched by magic. Does that make it deserving of not having its pips changed just so that he can win the game, no matter how uncooperative it's being?

He sighs and tries to find a more comfortable spot on the box he is sitting on. It is disagreeably lumpy and not the best size for seating, but the only other option would be to ditch it and sit on the floor. Which he is _not_ going to do. It is difficult enough standing up from sitting on the box in the cramped space—and who'd decided that a storage closet under stairs _had_ to have a sloping ceiling, anyhow? Utterly unimaginative. And lazy. It was lazy. He should change it. If he is going to live here now he requires at least a suite. With high ceilings. And skylights.

He stares down at the cards on the box. When he was a kid he'd enjoyed the tidy geometry of laying out a new game, the excitement of what was revealed and unrevealed, but most of all the sense of accomplishment whenever he guided the game to completion…

"Fuck symbolism," he says, picking up the cards. It's pointless to keep going if the game is going to be a dead end. He doesn't have the strength to do another of _those_. Not without more… whatever it is he should be drinking instead of whatever it is he has just drunk.

It wouldn't be gin. He is never going to drink gin again.

He is about to haul himself out to make a fresh drink—seriously, he should just bring the bar in here, no one would miss it—when he thinks he hears someone descending the steps. Whoever it is is moving slowly, as if listening between every step. The muffled clicky-taps have a distinctive resonance, and while he's not absolutely sure, it sounds like The Glinda Shoes, the pair of well-worn crystal-encrusted rose gold ankle strap stiletto pumps that Margo only pulls out for Very Special Occasions.

Has he become a Very Special Occasion?

He dismisses the firefly and hunkers down. If she finds him she'll probably make a joke about the Dursleys, and then try to pull him out of this musty hole and outside into the sunshine, and while he loves her dearly, he doesn't want sunshine or cheering up.  Not yet. He wants to wallow in the dark a bit longer. He _needs_ to wallow.

Also, she'll probably be pissed at him for leaving her to deal with the burning bed.

He hadn't intended to go that far, actually. He'd intended to be reasonable—pillowcases and sheets only—but when he'd stepped into his bedroom Mike's smell roiled off the blankets and spread, and so he'd peeled everything away with flame, a layer at a time. Very satisfying, at least visually.

Margo had rushed in as the flannel underpad disappeared in a swirl of ash and the mattress topper started to smoke.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Eliot," she'd said. "Where are you going to sleep? On the floor?"

"I'm never going to sleep again," he'd told her. And he meant it. Really he did. He intended to spend the rest of his life passing out.

"Use your words," she'd pleaded. "Talk to me. Tell me what happened."

He didn't want to. How he could possibly tell her that the thing that bothered him most wasn't that he'd had to kill Mike—for there hadn't been any other option, not with Eliza already dead and Dean Fogg next on the Beast's kill list—but that Mike hadn't been real. The _actual_ Mike, whoever he had been, had never really been there at all. Eliot couldn't stomach what that said about him, that the first actual True Love of his life had been with a mind-controlled puppet. Granted, he hadn't known what was going on, but that didn't make him feel any less guilty. Because he _should_ have known. It had been too good to be true. Too true to be good.

And then, as if everything with Mike hadn't been revolting or horrifying enough on its own, the revelations about Plover…  It didn't matter that it had happened decades ago; the things Plover had done to Martin filled Eliot with such revulsion that… no, he couldn't even think about it, much less talk about it. Should he tell Margo that he'd spent the hours after his return from England dry-heaving in the shower? A  _shower_ of all things! Margo would know how significant that was, because she knew he never took showers if a bath was available, but this, this was something he _didn't_ want to soak in. He wanted the water to carry everything far, far away from him, immediately.

And so, even though he knew she'd be angry when she realized she'd been ditched, he’d sent her off on the pretext of buying fresh bedding, then fled to the storage closet under the stairs and now here he was.

To his surprise, the tippity-tapping of the Glinda Shoes becomes faint. A moment later the air throbs slightly with the vibration from a slammed door, and then blessed silence returns. His eyes have adjusted enough to the darkness to see the dim pale rectangles of the playing cards. A wobbly path to nowhere. "Consider your sins," he tells them sternly as he stands, wondering an instant before he bumps his head on the ceiling how fast he'd have to stand up to knock himself out.

The floor rises and tilts. He grabs at a bundle of limbo poles, but they give him no support—isn't that always the way?—and he staggers into a tower of metal lampshades that gleam dully in the sliver of light coming in under the sliding. door.

The noise results in no one running to investigate, however, and so he slides the TADA-side door open enough to see out. The sunlight is too bright for him to tell whether the lump on the couch is just a throw or someone sleeping, so he checks Thurston-side. Empty. Good. The bar on that side is better stocked anyhow.

"I need something healthy," he says, holding onto various surfaces as his numb feet puzzle out how to navigate the floor.  "Something… herbal." He leans on the bar. "… and something. And… hm, it'll come to me."

He contemplates the martini glasses. Too small. He plucks an old-fashioned glass off the shelf with a shudder—at least he hasn't sink so far as to use a _Collins_ glass—and sets the glass down on the counter. "I have," he murmurs, "standards."

Holding onto the edge of the countertop, he squats and looks under the bar.

There it is, back corner. His custom benedictine. Twenty-EIGHT herbs and spices. Margo had pronounced it undrinkable, which was rubbish. "Nothing is undrinkable," he says, pulling the bottle from the back corner with a clatter. "Come here, you shy thing. I appreciate you, even if no one else does." Next to it is a bottle of rye, which to Eliot's knowledge has never been opened, and also a plastic bottle of a red liquid with a caveman on it that someone had brought back from Finland and which no one has been brave enough to taste.

He mixes these unloved orphans with abandon, then takes a sip. The mixture is weird and disgusting and utterly perfect.

Getting the glass and all three bottles into his refuge takes two trips, but he manages not to spill anything.

It's not until he's gotten settled, summoned a new firefly, and laid out a new game that he notices Margo sitting across from him.

Her feet are in shadow, so he can't see if her shoes are sparkling. Just as he’d known she would, she says, "C'mon Tink, the Dursleys are on vacation." Then her face gets serious. “Are you… _hiding_ from me?” A half-laugh fronts this question, but hurt and worry—and more than a little bitterness—are underneath.

“Sweetie, I'm hiding from _everyone.”_

Immediately she shapes a box in the air, then closes the lid emphatically. Eliot can almost see the shimmering bubble that now surrounds them. A soundproofing spell, making it safe for him to talk freely.

His eyes well up; anime tears, ridiculously spherical. He casts his own spell quickly, two quick grabs at the air that end with a nose-tapping.

"What the hell was that?" she asks.

"Snot-clearing spell," he tells her. "You know what an ugly crier I am."

"Yeah." She presses her lips together, and they tremble. "You're really just going to sit here drinking in the dark?" she asks. "Couldn't you think of anything _more_ sad and pathetic to do?"

"I am not sitting in the dark drinking," he replies. "I am playing solitaire."

"Oh _well_ , that's completely different."

"Did you know we're the only country that calls it that? It's called Patience everywhere else."

She moves to sit next to him, and he closes his eyes, cataloguing all the smells that make up Margo's Margoness: perfume, and the cigarettes that she pretends she doesn't smoke, and something coconutty or cocoa butter-ish from moisturizer or shampoo. Usually the _mélange_ is comforting, familiar, but right now he's not sure he can take it. It reminds him too much of the Eliot he's supposed to be, the Eliot Margo and everyone else probably want him to be. The Eliot that's sliding further and further away.

"Stop trying to put jacks on kings," she says softly. "Queens go on kings."

"How heteronormative." He's lost interest in the game. "I know you're not really here. You're off holding court over a bevy of eager muff-lappers." He knows he's being a shit, but the longer she stays the meaner he'll get, and even though they usually soothe each other's storms, that only works to a point. Sooner or later pinches and love nips start to hurt.

There's a rattling sound, and the Thurston-side door opens. Some first-year he doesn't know is standing there, gaping at him.

"What do you want?" Eliot asks, aware that the snot-clearing spell hasn't worked all that well.

"The, uh…" The girl is turning red. "That." She points to a battered box of Popper flashcards.

"Are you okay?" she asks as he hands her the box. "Do you, uh, need someone to talk to?"

"No," Eliot says, and the first year scurries off, but the damage is already done, because of _course_ he needs someone to talk to.

Margo has disappeared.

He supposes he should take advantage of the quiet. Encanto Oculto will be over in two days, and when it is everyone will be back and the Cottage will once again be full of noise and motion.

Then again, the experienced fellatists will be back as well. So there is that.

He sits drinking for a while and then sets up the cards, over and over and over again, until the aces are unmasked and the lesser cards step forward, in tidy columns of black and red, to smother them.

 

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_~ The End ~_

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_First post 25 May 2018; revised 20 Jan 2019_


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